


Retribution

by rebooting



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Mindfuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-10
Updated: 2011-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-21 05:51:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebooting/pseuds/rebooting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the xmen_firstkink meme prompt: Dark!Charles makes Erik come just by mind-fucking him while they're thousands miles apart. Basically what it says on the tin. Dark!Charles visits Erik telepathically one night and exacts retribution for what Erik has done. Post-movie. Additional trigger warning for negative sentiments expressed about being disabled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retribution

It has been close to eight months since the beach, and Charles is still fucking furious at Erik Lehnsherr.

Not surprising, really; the man is directly responsible for Charles's current state, whether he intended it or not, and Charles is not sanguine enough to be accepting of his newfound limitations, not this soon after his injury. Days go by without him thinking about the beach, and then he wakes in a fury, screaming his rage at the night, inside his own head and the head of any telepath within his range. He keeps his anger to himself; it would frighten the others, or upset them, and they look to him for guidance. And he has more than enough pride to not want to appear weak in front of them.

But oh, he's angry. Furious at Moira for firing the bullets at a man who can _bend metal_ , for God's sake; furious at Erik for being careless, for putting on that fucking helmet and turning his back on all of them; even, sometimes, furious at Hank for not warning them not to move him sooner. He knows, clinically, that his spine was broken from the moment the bullet impacted with his suit; Hank's work prevented it from penetrating, and he knows he's lucky in that regard, that at least he doesn't have to deal with the internal damage of a bullet ripping through him, but the broken spine is bad enough, and he doesn't have it in him right now to play the thankful victim.

He doesn't know where Erik has taken his little group, the dark mirror of Charles's own recruits. He knows Hank is suffering, separated from Raven, but isn't _he_ suffering more? He knows, too, that it's not a _contest_ , but he doesn't _care_. He lost his legs and his sister in the same day, and he doesn't care if it's petty of him, he's still angry.

He spent the first few months after the beach recovering, trying not to have to cope with the truth, learning to navigate in the chair. The mansion has been renovated, fitted with elevators and ramps, and a part of him rages every time he sees them, because this was _his home_ and now he feels as though it's been gutted.

Now, though -- now he has plans. His freedom has been taken from him, chaining him to this damned wheelchair, but he's not broken yet. He's got his mind, and with Cerebro, rebuilt by Hank on the top floor of the mansion, he's got _reach_. And he's got his rage fuelling him. He'll need all three.

Erik can't wear the helmet forever.

He scans every night, sending his mind our further and further. He's careful, shielding himself in ways he'd never thought he'd have to before; he'd never met another telepath before. But he's aware that Emma Frost has been broken out of the CIA's custody, so he has to be cautious. He doesn't want anyone ruining his surprise.

Finally, several nights after his vigil began, Charles touches on a familiar mind, all sharp edges and broken-glass shine. He smirks to himself, gathering his strength and carefully, delicately slipping into Erik's mind, leaving no sign of his passing -- yet.

He just piggybacks for a little while, since Erik is in the middle of talking to Raven, and Charles doesn't particularly want to have this _discussion_ with Erik while his baby sister is in the room. He wouldn't care if it was one of the others -- would almost embrace that, actually, now that he thinks about it. Erik robbed him of his freedom; what better way to begin the repayment by robbing Erik of dignity and control? But not in front of Raven. _That_ facet of Charles's retribution will have to wait until the teleporter and the wind-conjurer are conveniently nearby.

Eventually, Raven leaves. Charles nudges Erik's mind lightly, triggering the mild urge to go lie down. He's keeping his touches light for now, so gentle that Erik can't tell he's there. He can tell Erik wants to go over battle plans, and for a moment those are intriguing -- it would be useful to know what Erik's team has planned -- but Charles is impatient, and he triggers the urge to lie down again, adding a layer of tiredness to Erik's mind. Finally, Erik sighs and toes off his shoes, padding over to the door and locking it, much to Charles's delight. Save for the teleporter's interference, he'll have all night uninterrupted to let Erik know exactly how angry he is.

Erik goes over to the bed, lying down and rubbing his eyes tiredly, and Charles strikes. He doesn't bother hiding his psychic movements now, and Erik's sudden panic when he realises he can't move is _lovely_. Charles chuckles, back in New York in Cerebro's chamber, and the laugh echoes in Erik's mind, telling him in no uncertain terms _who_ it is that has him trapped in his own body.

Erik tries to open his mouth, to talk, but Charles is having none of that. He chides telepathically, _Now, now, Erik. That's not necessary. I know everything you're thinking right now, there's no need for words between us. I know you better than you know yourself._

The echo of his words, so long ago, makes Erik squirm, wanting to protest. Charles chuckles again, issuing telepathic commands to keep Erik still on the bed. He's deep enough in Erik's mind that he can feel every aborted movement, every word that wants to burst free, and the frustrated fear exhilarates him. Boosted by Cerebro, he can even _see_ Erik, although not his surroundings, not unless he looks through Erik's eyes. He's torn between which would be better -- watching Erik in the grey, featureless haze that is the environment seen through Cerebro, or _feeling_ everything from within his mind -- and settles for a compromise. He stays in Erik's mind deep enough to issue commands and read thoughts, but surrenders the increased security that being able to see the rest of the room and the door would have given him.

It's not like they can hurt him, even if they do manage to figure out that he's there and break into Erik's room.

While he hovers in Erik's mind, deciding exactly what he wants to do, he triggers another command almost idly, and Erik lets out a short, harsh cry of protest as his hands move up above his head seemingly of their own volition, crossing themselves at the wrists and pressing into the mattress. Charles considers taking away Erik's ability to make a sound, even a wordless one, but eventually decides against it. If things go as he's planned, by the end of their little visit he'll have Erik helpless and whimpering in his hands, so to speak.

 _Do you know what you've done?_ he asks, not expecting an answer. Not allowing one. _Do you know what you've cost me? I saved your life, and you repaid me with betrayal. Did you think I was too **naïve** to want vengeance?_

He's had a long time to consider what to do tonight. Now that he's finally got his hands on Erik, he's not sure _what_ would satisfy him the most. He's dreamed up a hundred scenarios -- forcing Erik back into his memories of Shaw, showing Erik _exactly_ how it felt to have that coin forced through his mind, if not his actual _brain_ , showing Erik _every second_ of frustration and humiliation and _helplessness_ that Charles has felt since the doctors told him he'd never walk again. So many scenarios, so many ways to destroy Erik in retaliation for his crimes.

But in the end, Charles doesn't _want_ Erik _destroyed_. Destruction is so final, and he finds himself unwilling to lose as fascinating an opponent as Erik. He can tear him down, though; bring him to his knees and begging for mercy, and all without laying a finger on him. Something about that feels like poetic justice. They can both break each other without so much as a touch.

Humming to himself, the sound echoing in Cerebro's chamber and Erik's mind, he peruses the synapses and processes that make up the brain, until he finds what he's looking for. Running a telepathic finger down the pleasure cortex, he smiles when Erik lets out a startled gasp, trying again to break free of Charles's control, to get up, to _move_.

 _Frustrating, isn’t it?_ Charles asks, mock-sympathetically, as he sinks deeper into Erik's mind and begins to layer sensations. A hand here, gripping Erik's cock and stroking it slowly, ungodly slowly; fingers there, pinching and twisting his nipples just the wrong side of too painful. He doesn't care that Erik's gasps are underlaid with pain now, because why _shouldn't_ he feel pain? The sensory confusion from the polar opposites, pain and pleasure, is delightful, to Charles's mind; they're much less so to Erik, but it's not Erik's thoughts that Charles cares about tonight.

 _Frustrating, not being able to move. You want to. You want to get up and get that ridiculous helmet and shut me out._ Another sensation, this one of a mouth on Erik's cock, and with the projection of the hand still there the sensation is bizarre and a little overwhelming, Charles can tell. He's pleased that it's working the way he theorised it should, and adds, _It's not happening. And I could make this permanent, if I wanted to. I could make your brain think you'd been injured beyond repair, that your legs just didn't work anymore. You could find out how it feels, Erik, to be stared at every time you leave your home, to have people wonder what happened to you, to have them talk to your companion instead of you, like you're some mentally deficient child just because you can't walk._

Erik wants to protest, to say that he never intended this. Charles doesn't care what Erik did or didn't intend; it happened, regardless. He croons, _Road to Hell, Erik. Road to Hell._

He turns his attention back to gross motor functions, forcing Erik to turn over and get up on his hands and knees. He can feel Erik's muscles quivering with the desire to move further, to run for the protection of the helmet, but he keeps his grip firm. He forces Erik's arms and head down until Erik is resting his forehead on his folded arms, spreading his knees further apart, looking for all the world like a wanton offering to some depraved sexual god. The picture would feel more complete if Erik weren't still totally clothed, but Charles enjoys the contrast.

He can feel Erik's fear, and it both delights and sickens him. He can feel Erik's frustrated humiliation, being forced into a position like this, both figuratively and literally, and _that_ just delights him, no sick guilt involved. He projects the sensation of a kiss to the back of Erik's neck, and begins to construct another projection, this one a little more complicated.

While he's working, he says idly, _All that time, were you planning on betraying me? Is that why you warned me out of your mind, because you were afraid I'd see your true intentions? Were you sleeping with me **knowing** that you were always going to walk away?_

Erik wants to reply, but Charles doesn't let him, doesn't even look at the thoughts forming in response. He triggers his projection, and Erik lets out a strangled cry as Charles forces the sensation of being fucked into the mattress into his mind.

He's not gentle about it. There's no lingering foreplay, no pauses to let him get used to it, the way they'd had sex before, before everything turned to ash in the aftermath of Erik's betrayal. The sensations are hard and rough and brutal, and Charles keeps the others going at the same time -- fingers on Erik's nipples, adding pain to the pleasure; hand and mouth on his cock at the same time.

 _It shouldn't bother you,_ he says cruelly, keeping his control iron-hard, barely letting Erik have enough control of his own body to let out the tiny, whimpering sounds that are making Charles feel both aroused and guilty. He forces the guilt down, sneering, _I thought you'd be used to fucking without emotions involved. Isn't that what we did? Were you just trying to distract me so I didn't pry too deeply?_

He can feel Erik's desperate denial, but he doesn't care. _Can't_ care. Can't let caring break his shield of rage, because if it does, he doesn't know if he'll survive the fallout. So he projects more sensation to Erik, adding bites to his throat, fingers gripping his hips hard enough to bruise, until Erik is shuddering on the bed, a soft, steady stream of gasps and whimpered moans slipping from his lips.

 _Judas,_ Charles croons, forcing a projection of lips at Erik's ear, breath hot against his skin, teeth sharp and just a touch too painful nipping at his earlobe. _Killing Shaw was one thing; leaving was entirely another. Did you know I could feel every inch of that coin going through his brain? I was in his mind, Erik, and you **knew** I had to stay there to keep him from attacking you. You **knew** I would feel everything you did to him._

Erik's breath is coming in short, harsh gasps now, and Charles can feel the fear and denial and gut-wrenching sorrow coursing through him. He forces himself to ignore the emotions, focusing purely on the physical. He runs psychic fingers over the pleasure cortex in Erik's brain, feeling a hot surge of angry satisfaction at the way Erik's muscles can't even tense, can do nothing except tremble from the sensations Charles is forcing on him.

Erik's not even going to get to feel like he fought back. Charles tells himself that it's justice, because _he_ never got the chance to fight the injury that crippled him.

 _Why **do** you wear that helmet so often, Erik?_ he asks, adjusting one of the projections to make the fucking faster, harder. Ignoring any hint of an answer to his question -- he doesn't want an answer, he wants Erik to know just how _fucking furious_ Charles is -- he adds, _Is it really because you think Emma will read your mind? She's smarter than that, Erik. She rarely read Shaw's mind, and you're a great deal more charismatic than he was. She has **some** concept of loyalty._ He sneers, the projection-fingers on Erik's nipples twisting hard enough to make Erik cry out in pain, and continues, _You're dissimilar in that respect, it seems. But she won't read you, and I think you know that. I think you wear that helmet because you're afraid of **me**._

No denial this time, no matter that Charles would have ignored it if it had been there. He feels another rush of satisfaction at the knowledge that Erik _is_ afraid of him. Afraid of what the beach has done to him, both physically and emotionally.

 _Coward,_ Charles whispers. _You were too afraid to bother to find out, weren't you?_

It's getting easier for him to issue his psychic commands, easier for him to keep Erik still; Erik's struggles are weakening, worn down by Charles's continued psychic and emotional assault. The sounds he's making are softer, and Charles feels a shiver of delicious thrill go through him when he realises there are tiny, choked sobs mixed in with the whimpers and moans.

 _You want this,_ he informs Erik, lazily. _You **deserve** it. You want me to punish you for your transgressions, don't you? You hate losing control, you hate being made to do **anything** , but you know this is what you deserve. _

This time, there's no denial. Charles smiled to himself, resisting the urge to project a kiss to the back of Erik's neck. Erik doesn't deserve the benediction.

He increases the projections, turning everything harder, faster, rougher, until Erik is letting out ragged, tormented cries of mingled ecstasy and agony. Finally, when Charles knows he can't draw it out any longer if he's going to be able to concentrate enough to get back to his own head and his own room, he lets Erik come, cutting off the projections as a hoarse, gasped moan slips from Erik's lips.

 _You know this is what you deserve,_ he repeats, practically crooning. He feels another burst of satisfaction at Erik's realisation that he's going to have to get to the laundry without anyone seeing him or else destroy the pants he's just soiled, and can't keep himself from projecting another brief, firm touch stroking along Erik's cock, chuckling at the terrified, exhausted whimper that Erik is unable to keep back.

Finally, he releases Erik's body, letting him control it again. Perhaps surprisingly, Erik doesn't immediately go for the helmet. He rolls onto his side, curling around himself, shuddering a little from aftershock, and Charles finds he quite likes the way Erik looks right now.

 _Erik._ His psychic voice is quiet, but firm. _Don't wear that helmet in here, Erik. I'll be looking for you. And you won't like what will happen if you're not waiting for me when I come looking._

He begins to disengage his mind, preparing to return to his own body. He's still in Erik's mind enough to feel the tears that are streaking Erik's cheeks, still in Erik's mind enough to feel the fear and shame and self-loathing.

As he pulls away, he's very certain that Erik will do as he's told. That the helmet won't be on when Erik is alone in his bedroom. And that this is _far_ from the last time Charles will visit and exact retribution.


End file.
